


Illicit

by moonstone1520



Series: One Little Word [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Guilt, Heavy Angst, Incomplete, Infidelity, Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-23
Updated: 2017-05-23
Packaged: 2018-11-04 05:18:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10984164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonstone1520/pseuds/moonstone1520
Summary: It started, as these things often do, with a kiss.





	Illicit

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Turn Right](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10329197) by [sunken_standard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunken_standard/pseuds/sunken_standard). 



> This is an unfinished work that might get a continuation. Not sure, yet. I like what I have so far, though. Life keeps getting in the way of my writing, so I wanted to post what I had.
> 
> Thank you to MizJoely for giving this a once over!

When Sherlock Holmes saw Molly Hooper in her wedding dress, he was left completely and utterly speechless for one of the few times in his life. Not because of what she was wearing, but because of how she looked wearing it. 

Her alabaster skin glowed against the snow white of her dress. Her hair was drawn up into a loose, messy bun, with tendrils falling to gently frame her face. Her face wore its natural palette of color, but with added tones that complimented her brown eyes and soft lips. 

Her expression, though.

Her expression as she came down the aisle was what pierced his heart most of all: it was content, settled, her eyes shining gently with something akin to happiness, but with sadness also flittering around the edges.

She looked, in short, absolutely stunning.

She also wasn’t dressed that way for  _ him _ . 

 

*†*†*†*

 

It started, as these things often do, with a kiss.

Sherlock could (and would) argue that their frenzied couplings against the walls of her flat when they finally stumbled in together after The Fall was the catalyst to the situation they found themselves in, but both he (and Molly) knew better. 

No, it began after his return from his two year self-imposed exile, and the spark that ignited the whole affair occurred in the hallway that fateful day.

It had felt like a breakup; as though they were saying goodbye to  _ something _ that never was, but in a different time, in a different place, could have been. If Sherlock had been a different man; if Molly hadn’t been engaged.

But he wasn’t and she was and he was absolutely going to be the gentleman and let her go to be happy with the boring, staid, utterly  _ ghastly _ fiancé she seemed intent on marrying, if the ring on her finger showed any indication.

If the ring on her finger showed any indication, however, it was that she really didn’t  _ want _ to get married, judging by how often she fiddled with it, like she wasn’t quite used to wearing it.

Interesting, that.

If Sherlock Holmes had been a different man, he would have left after kissing her cheek. He would have ignored the breathy sigh that emerged from the woman in front of him. He would have pretended he didn’t feel the twinge in his chest as he pulled away. And he would have pretended that he didn’t see her cheeks flush with heat and color and an answering pull in his stomach.

Sherlock Holmes, however, was not a different man.

He  _ did _ hear the breathy sigh that came from Molly. He  _ did _ feel the twinge in his chest as he pulled away from her. He  _ did _ see her cheeks flush with color and heat. And he  _ did _ feel the answering pull in his stomach. 

So, when he pulled away, it was only slightly. He opened his eyes as she did, and their gazes locked. His lips were so close to hers, it would only have taken the slightest fall for them to meet. Their breaths mingled in the confined space. He felt her right hand curl around his and hold on tight. Her eyes sparkled with warmth and arousal. She whispered the smallest sound, something that just could have been the murmur of his name.

He really,  _ really _ should have walked away.

Instead, he fell.

Sherlock softly pressed his lips to hers, increasing the pressure when he felt Molly respond. His free hand grazed her cheek, sending tingles throughout her frame. She opened her mouth to him, deepening the illicit kiss, his tongue mating with hers. She snaked her arm into his coat and wrapped it around his waist, pulling him closer, his body radiating heat, her grip on his hand changing so their fingers intertwined. He brought their linked hands up to rest against his chest where she could feel the pounding of his heart.

It was slow, it was gentle, it was sensual. 

It was so completely unlike their previous kisses and couplings that Sherlock almost felt as though he was kissing someone else entirely.

In a way, he was.

It was the spark that ignited everything else that came after.

It began, as these things do, with a kiss.

 

*†*†*†*

 

The slow sensual kissing in the hallway somehow melded into hot and heavy snogging at Baker Street. Molly was trapped between Sherlock’s body and the door and the feeling of being pinned was absolutely  _ delicious _ .

She missed this. She missed  _ him _ . She missed his kisses and his touches and his body and how he could light her entire being aflame with a simple  _ look _ .

It was telling that Tom didn’t enter her brain until after. 

Her mouth fused to Sherlock’s, she pulled his shirt out of his trousers and raked her nails up his back, feeling the new scars that littered his skin. His answering hiss against her lips made the place between her legs simply  _ throb _ . He teethed at her bottom lip, alternating between gently nibbling and flat out biting, soothing the hurt with brushes of his tongue.

It drove her absolutely mad.

Molly removed her hands from his skin (his moan at the loss of contact made her grin against his mouth and thrust her hips against his burgeoning erection, turning his moan into a growl) and fumbled with his buckle and zip, her hands losing all coordination as he tore himself from her mouth and made his way to her neck. He found the place near her jugular where she privately thought she might be able to come from enough stimulation to that spot alone, and began pulling and sucking at the skin there. Molly gasped, her hands flying to his head and entangling her fingers in his curls. 

His hands were everywhere: under her blouse, raking over her back, her stomach, travelling up to knead and pull at her breasts and nipples. Molly was overwhelmed with sensation and thrust harder and more frequently against his hips, almost without realizing what she was doing. Taking the hint, Sherlock maneuvered them so his thigh was placed between her legs, giving her something to rut against.

It wasn’t enough. The pressure inside her was increasing and if she didn’t get a release soon, she’d explode.

She yanked his head away from her neck and attacked his mouth—all teeth and tongue, her hands going back to his zipper while his began to fumble with her trousers. She freed his erection and wrapped her hand around him, squeezing and giving a tentative pull. Sherlock inhaled sharply and rested his forehead against hers, his breath coming in short gasps as she continued to pleasure him. Molly’s thumb circled the head of his cock, spreading the precum down the rest of his shaft, a motion that spurred him to action. Sherlock tugged her trousers down impatiently, her knickers remaining on her hips, and lifted her off the floor. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and his legs around his waist, her lips finding his in a messy kiss. 

She bit his lip when his fingers moved her knickers aside and breached her, then her head fell back against the door as he plunged into her with his cock. He stilled for a moment, their heavy breathing synchronized for a brief moment in time, letting her get used to the feeling of his intrusion again.

“Sherlock,” she whispered.  At that, he began to move inside of her. He gripped her wrist and raised it above her head, pinning to the wood of the door. She held on to him for dear life as he pounded into her, and Molly felt herself racing to her climax in record time. With a final push, she felt herself tumbling over the edge. She moaned into his mouth, as he continued to move inside of her, his hips stuttering and jerking as he chased his own completion. She felt his climax inside of her before she heard it and it triggered another orgasm, a muffled cry escaping her as he released a low groan into her neck, his grip on their linked hands strong enough to fracture. 

Slowly, reality came back to her. They were still frozen against the door: her arm and legs still wrapped around his waist, his hand pinning hers against the wood above her head, his face was still buried in her neck and her forehead rested on his shoulder. Their breathing slowing, their hearts ceasing their pounding, Sherlock gently lowered Molly to the floor. She adjusted her knickers, refusing to look at him as she felt his release pool in the flimsy fabric. He bent and picked up her trousers, handing them to her as he tucked himself back into his own garment. She pulled them on, her eyes widening as she heard the door downstairs fly open.

“Sherlock!” a woman called out, panic lacing her tone.

“Mary?” he murmured. He glanced at Molly then, the apology in his eyes.

“Go,” she mouthed, moving aside as Mary ran up the stairs to the flat. Sherlock took her face in his hands and kissed her hard before throwing open the door and meeting the woman at the landing. Molly heard muffled voices, then two sets of feet racing back down the stairs. Hearing the front door slam, she hurried to the window to look out at the street. She watched Sherlock halt a motorbike, climb on it, a women in red right behind him, and speed away. 

Molly exhaled heavily, her brow furrowing as her text alert sounded.

**On your way home? I’ve picked up takeaway and a bottle of wine. –T**

It was only then that the guilt of what she’d just done crashed down around her.

 

*†*†*†*

 

“I’m on the pill. So you needn’t worry.”

“I wasn’t.”

“That can’t happen again.”

“I know.”

 

*†*†*†*

 

That it did happen again wasn’t intended. Sherlock enlisted her help with putting together the Watson wedding, throwing himself into the planning to create the illusion that he was completely okay with the fact that it was never again going to be just him and John against the world. 

Of course, Molly saw through him.

She always saw through him.

He was rambling again. He knew he was rambling, but he couldn’t seem to shut his mouth off. He had too many ideas about the music and the food, the wine and the serviettes, and planning the Watson’s wedding reminded both of them that she had her own wedding to plan, so to derail that train of thought, she had kissed him just to shut him up. 

His mind went blissfully blank at the touch of her lips to his. They were just as soft and warm as he remembered and he cupped the back of her head to keep her from pulling away. 

She was his drug and he needed a fix.

It never occurred to him that he would soon enough become her addiction, too.

Her fists, curled around the material of his shirt from where she pulled him to her, relaxed their grip and her fingers spread wide across his chest. She slid her arms up and around his neck, molding her body against his. He wrapped an arm around her waist and walked her backwards to the sofa, gently pushing her down on the cushions and climbing on top of her. She kissed her way down his jaw, grazing his earlobe with her teeth. Feeling his body shudder on top of her sent the most delicious thrill down her spine. 

They took their time with one another. He rucked her sundress down to worship her breasts properly, his tongue and teeth eliciting breathy sighs and moans from Molly. One of her hands raked through his curls, gently tangling and twisting, while the other snaked into his trousers, wrapping around his cock. Eventually, he removed her hand, hiking up the hem of her dress, moving aside her knickers and kissing her as he gently pushed his way inside of her. 

He kissed her when she came, and restrained himself from finishing inside of her (it took every ounce of his self-control). She left shortly after, unable to handle the smell of sex in the air, the guilt of what they had done.

She threw the sundress into the bottom of the hamper when she got home and jumped into the shower, both desperately needing, and not wanting, to get the scent of Sherlock Holmes off her.

 

*†*†*†*

 

It was an unspoken agreement that her flat was off-limits. So, apparently, were beds at first (though that was by happenstance, rather than design). Instead, they fucked on his sofa, his chair, in the shower, on the kitchen table (when it was clear of experiments and mouldy food), against various walls in his flat. He got her off in a broom closet at Bart’s when John and Lestrade ran to the canteen for a coffee while they were on a case. The women’s locker room was utilized after his close call with death on the rigged Tube carriage. 

Words were rarely, if ever, spoken. Instead, it was subtle touches and lingering eye contact. Adrenaline fueled shags when he cheated death again, the rush (the shame, the crushing guilt) she felt from sneaking around behind everyone’s back. The frequency of their encounters would increase in the weeks that Tom was out of town on business, and decreased, or ceased altogether when he stayed at hers. 

Text conversations were initiated and swiftly deleted by both parties.

**Come by Baker Street round 8. Need your input on a theory. –SH**

**I have a hand for you to play with. It’s at Bart’s. I’ll be there until 6am. –Mx**

**I hate that I can’t wake up next to you. –Mx**

**I miss you. –SH**

They began getting careless in the weeks leading up to the Watson wedding: John noticed a bruise on Sherlock’s clavicle that Molly had left behind during one of their more frenzied encounters; Lestrade commented on Molly’s hastily buttoned blouse when he was in to discuss an autopsy after Sherlock had brought her off with his fingers in a storage cupboard; Mrs. Hudson raised her brows at finding the two of them alone in Sherlock’s sitting room one day, the smell of air freshener heavy in the air, and the two of them pointedly avoiding the sofa; Mary raised her eyebrows at them when Molly arrived to the wedding shower with Sherlock’s cologne subtly hanging about her. And they were almost caught mid-fuck by Stamford when he unexpectedly came by her office to discuss some paperwork—an embarrassment that was covered by Sherlock pulling himself out of her, zipping up, and speaking to her loudly regarding the body he originally came into see, while she stood up from her position on her desk and redressed hurriedly. The flush on her cheeks and chest Stamford had (blessedly) put to her infatuation with the detective. 

 

*†*†*†*

 

“That was too close, Sherlock.”

“Do you want to stop?”

“We need to stop.”

“Then we’ll stop.”

 

*†*†*†*

 

Molly thought it would be easy, breaking off their affair. She thought it would be easy to go back to the way things were between them… before. She tried to keep him out of her thoughts and dreams, tried to ignore the way his distance in the lab made her ache, tried to enjoy Tom when he made love to her. 

But she knew now how Sherlock Holmes tasted.  The sounds he made when she used her tongue  _ just so _ . How well his body melded to hers. How to elicit the breathy moan that made her wild with desire. How beautiful he looked when he came. 

And she knew that she was forever damned because of it.

She never dreamed he would feel the same way. 

 

*†*†*†*

 


End file.
